White Christmas
by practicallypretentious
Summary: Nico and Will di Angelo have been happily married for twenty-two years. They still, however, manage to have some domestic arguments. (Warning: severe amounts of fluff ahead)


It's late December and the kids are due home tomorrow.

Christmas cookies are a di Angelo family tradition, and our traditions are deeply ingrained in our psyche.

The exorbitant amount of lights are hung, and have been hung since November 30th.

The tree is up, though stripped of ornaments because tree decorating will always be a family affair.

The stockings all hang by the fireplace, and the inside of every bathroom is home to a festive hand towel.

We bought an aggressive amount of Yankee candles, each Cranberry Peppermint scented.

And yet, there's still one Holiday tradition to fulfill.

We have to make Christmas sugar cookies.

Now don't get me wrong, I love my husband. He's the light of life, seriously. But the man cannot cook. He thinks a cup of flour means dumping about a handful, a teaspoon of salt is just a pinch or so. Following directions were never his thing, and following recipes is his version of a nightmare. I, however, know that baking is a science. And like any science, there are rules to follow and procedures to keep in mind. So. Here we are. 7am on December 20th, I'm staring at Will. He's staring at me. We're each daring the other to make the first move. Who will bring up the sugar cookies this year? All the ingredients are already set out on the table. The flour, the sugar, the nutmeg, and two eggs in a little glass bowl.

Will can at best be described as charmingly relaxed this morning. His hair so messy I'm fairly confident more of his hair is sticking straight up than lying flat. He's wearing sweatpants and an old track t-shirt of mine.

It gets very cold in Kansas. There's actually snow falling as we eye each other over the counter top. That gives me an idea.

"It's cold out." I smirk at my beautiful, capable-of-anything-but-baking husband. Always start conversations about the weather.

"So cold, that maybe we should turn on the oven?" he smirks back, reading my mind. That man is too smart. Or maybe my Dad-jokes are really that predictable.

"So cold, that maybe you should run to the store. Get some extra firewood. And while you're there, I could certainly get the oven- and some other things- started." I smile an aggressively oblivious smile.

He frowns and rolls his eyes. "Not a chance, di Angelo. I'm not letting you bake the cookies. All your cookies turn out symmetrical and boring. Why do they all have to be 2tbs sphises? Can't we have stars and reindeer and santa's hats?"

"Why do you still call me that? I could just as easily call you di Angelo. It is your last name, too. Has been for like twenty-two years." I remind him.

"Because you're evading my questions and you have no christmas spirit and are incapable of having fun?"

To the untrained eye, this might appear to be fight. The untrained eye would be wrong.

Our stereo is blaring the same old Christmas music, and my husband and I are arguing over who gets to bake the cookies. This in itself is as much a part of the tradition as the cookies themselves.

"Would someone incapable of having fun do this!" I cry, grabbing a handful of flour and tossing it across the table at Will. his eyes go wide as his vast array of freckles becomes hidden under a splattering of flour. For a moment, I wonder if he might actually be going into shock. Then his eyes narrow, and I know that I have begun a true war. Before he can retaliate, I'm rushing around the counter, chasing his in a circle. he laughs and runs only for a second before spinning around, and I crash directly into his. Now I'm laughing, and we're leaning against the counter, and he reaches for the flour and I don't stop his from dumping his handful in my hair. And then my favorite of all the dumb horrible tragically overplayed Christmas song comes on, the one about white Christmases and dreams, and I grab my husband by his waist and take one of his hands in my own and I spin him about the kitchen floor. I'm careful of the counter but not too careful, and we both bang into it a few times. But we never break eye contact. Not until he closes his eyes and leans in. And I can taste flour on his lips. And I whisper in his ear, "I'm still not letting you make the cookies."


End file.
